


Have Yourself an Angsty Little Christmas

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Domestic, Hidden moments of vulnerability, Hot and sweet, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Military Kink, Mutual Pining, Pining, Snogging, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-17 16:18:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16977873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: A collection of ficlets for the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge.I adore fluff, but I also love mutual pining and angst, so I present to you this collection of ficlets. (Also known as “Two men in love who can’t communicate their feelings to each other but who can pine dramatically with deep emotion in private.”) Will there be a happy ending? Knowing me, yes.The chapter titles are the challenge prompts. Not all of the ficlets ended up being related. Read chapter 1 and 2 as a unit, then the rest essentially are chronological. (I didn’t plan these out in advance, tbh).  If you want to stay within the T rating, skip chapters 6 and 11, which are M.





	1. Do you see what I see?

I pull on my shirt and button it quickly, checking my watch as I grab my jacket and tie, rushing down the stairs to the sitting room.

“Sherlock,” I call out toward the closed door of his bedroom. “Are you almost ready?”

I don’t hear a reply, so I yell again. “We need to leave in five minutes or we’ll be late!”

We need to hurry to a press conference at Scotland Yard for a case Sherlock cracked, a sensationalistic one the media dubbed “The Santa Strangler.”

I quickly glance out the window, checking for the cab I’d called earlier. It hasn’t arrived yet, but I notice fat snowflakes drifting down from the grey sky. I watch the snow fall for a few moments, wishing we could just stay at home, start a fire, maybe watch an old movie.

But no, the show must go on, and Sherlock must perform at the media circus that he hates but grits his teeth through, smiling insincerely for the cameras, accepting another useless token of appreciation that he’ll never use.

I don’t know why Sherlock insists that I come along to these things. I suppose I’m useful as an assistant, holding on to coats and gift boxes and certificates. And as a translator, nudging him to be polite or replying to simple questions that he ignores.

Neither of us enjoys it, but the publicity is good for business. And when business is good, Sherlock is happy. And when Sherlock is happy… it’s brilliant. His mind snaps and sparks with energy, his hands fly with dramatic gestures, his body hums with excitement. I’d follow him anywhere, do anything, just to be in his orbit.

It’s been that way since I first met him. I’m drawn to him. I want to be with him, even on his worst, stroppiest days.

I walk back to the mirror that hangs above the fireplace and turn up my shirt collar, looping the tie around my neck. I concentrate on making a decent knot, staring at my fingers, trying to get it right.

When the knot looks acceptable, I straighten my tie, checking to make sure it’s even. I pause and glance up. In the mirror I see Sherlock standing behind me. I hadn’t heard him come into the room.

He’s wearing a deep navy blue suit and crisp white shirt that has a subtle pinstripe running through it. His hair gleams in the lamplight, his fingers dance elegantly as he adjusts his cuffs. I swallow, stunned again by the sharpness of his cheekbones, the curve of his lips, the lithesome power of his trim body. I want to tell him that he looks beautiful. I ache to let him know how I feel, that I want him with my heart and body and soul.

I say nothing.

He flicks his eyes up and they catch my gaze. I’m caught unprepared, unguarded, every agonizing desire etched on my face. His hands go still, his eyes lock with mine.

I breathe shallowly, fear and hope twining up my spine. A long moment passes, the air charged and heavy like a coming storm. Neither of us moves.

It’s too much. I break my gaze away, staring at my blanched face, my fingers fumbling to turn down my collar. Sherlock is still behind me, watching.

_Do you see what I see?_ I want to ask him. _A man desperately in love with you, too afraid to say anything, terrified to feel this way, terrified of being rejected, terrified of not being with you._

I don’t know if he sees, if he knows.

“We should go,” Sherlock finally says, his voice a low rumble that I can’t interpret.

I nod and shrug on my jacket and coat, waiting while Sherlock winds his scarf around his neck and pulls on his leather gloves, armored.

“Ready?” I ask, the word thick in my throat.

He looks at me with those piercing eyes and doesn’t answer, turns to the door, clips down the steps.

I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose, and take a shaky breath. I square my shoulders and follow him, like I always do.


	2. Comfort and Joy

I sit next to Sherlock in the back of the cab when we return to Baker Street after the press conference. It’s dark outside, Christmas lights sparkling in store windows and draped around trees, illuminating the cold night. A light dusting of snow covers fences and cars and bushes and bins, softening the hard edges of the city.

I glance at Sherlock. He’s wedged into the corner, his head partially resting on the window glass, his eyes closed. His face looks softer in this light, most of the tension gone. He’s drained, unusually tired by the frenzy of questions and glare of camera lights. Sometimes he seems to perversely relish the banter, baiting reporters or embarrassing the police with his sharp tongue. This time, however, he was unusually restrained.

I briefly wonder if I’m responsible for his subdued mood, if he saw my silent confession in the mirror and finds it repulsive or pathetic. I turn away and stare out my own window, my stomach twisting.

We finally arrive at the flat and Sherlock stirs from his corner. While he pays the driver, I exit the cab and unlock the door to the flat, debating whether or not to wait for him. My nerves propel me up the stairs to the sitting room where I strip off my coat and pry off my shoes. I consider heading straight to my bedroom when Sherlock floats through the door, blocking my escape.

He slowly peels off his coat and gloves, then unwinds his scarf. I loiter by my chair, feeling foolish in my stocking feet, waiting for a chance to duck away.

“I’ll make us a drink.” Sherlock levels his gaze at me, pinning me in place. “Will you light the fire?”

I nod obediently, unable to refuse. I start the fire and take a seat in my usual spot, picking up a nearby book and thumbing through it without absorbing a word.

Sherlock soon returns with two generous pours of whiskey and hands me a glass. He unbuttons his suit jacket with one easy motion, settling into his chair with a sigh.

“To another successful case,” I offer a toast, struggling to sound normal.

He raises his glass in a salute and we take a swallow, letting the whiskey burn a trail down our throats. We fall into silence, staring into our drinks, watching the flames dance in the amber liquid.

“I hope you know —” Sherlock starts abruptly, then stops. “You should know that I appreciate it, your help with these things.”

I glance up at him, unsure which things he means.

“Facing the media,” he fills in. “Standing up there with me. Keeping me in line.”

My mouth falls open a little, then I stammer a reply. “I’m glad to do it.”

“I don’t say it enough,” he continues, still looking down at his drink. “Maybe I’ve never said it… but I value it, all that you do.” He lifts his eyes, finally meeting mine. “I find it… a comfort, having you here. Having you with me.”

Surprise and warmth flood through my chest. These are the most intimate words Sherlock has ever spoken to me. It’s a confession of his own, if I dare to read it closely enough. Emboldened, I gaze into his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

“I think… I’d be lost without you,” he says softly, as if realizing it for the first time.

I gaze at him, a flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth, and he looks away, suddenly intrigued by the fireplace mantel. We sip our drinks, testing out this new space we’ve entered, a place beyond business partners, beyond flatmates, beyond friends. We’re something more, as yet undefined, but the possibility is there, still too fragile to touch.

I lean back in my chair and let my eyes drift shut, soaking in the heat of the fire, the closeness of Sherlock, the occasional clink of ice, and I’m filled with a quiet joy, grateful for the moment.


	3. Gingerbread

Sherlock stops on the front step, picking up the scent before he even opens the door. With the keys to the flat dangling in his fingers, he sniffs once, twice, then turns to John.

“She’s doing it.”

“Who’s doing what?” John asks, hunching into his coat, annoyed at being kept standing in the cold.

“Mrs. Hudson. She’s doing her Christmas baking. Can’t you smell it?”

“Actually, no, because I’m completely frozen. Could you open the door now?”

Sherlock holds up a gloved finger, commanding John to wait. He inhales, analyzes. “Gingerbread,” he declares.

John’s eyebrows lift with interest and he takes a tentative sniff. “I still don’t smell it.”

“Your senses are so dull, John,” Sherlock chides as he inserts the key into the lock. “How you manage to stumble around the world incapacitated is beyond me.”

His criticism irks John, but he’s soon distracted by the enticing scent that envelopes them as they enter the foyer.

John breathes in deeply, then lets out a sigh. “That’s heavenly.”

“Describe it,” Sherlock challenges. “What can you even observe with your underdeveloped senses?”

John shrugs, cold, tired, and impatient. “I don’t know. It’s warm, cosy.”

“Oh, please, so are wool jumpers and corner pubs. I thought you were a writer,” Sherlock taunts.

John’s mouth clamps into a straight line, his temper piqued. He calms himself and takes another breath, determined to prove he’s not an idiot. He pauses, then slowly reveals his observations.

“I smell the sharp spice of cinnamon… the golden burn of ginger… the dark pungency of cloves.… A warm current of air is drifting from Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, rising up the stairwell, carrying with it a cloud of sweetness and spice. The scent will linger on our bed sheets tonight, caught in our hair and pillows, so that every time we stir, it will tinge our dreams like the barely remembered taste of a lover’s skin.”

John stops, embarrassed that he got so carried away. Why did he say “our bed sheets?” He meant their own rooms, their separate beds, but it sounded far more intimate. And where did that bit about lovers come from? Had Sherlock ever had a lover? John looks at his feet, then glances up at Sherlock to see if he’s mocking him.

He’s surprised to find Sherlock gazing at him, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Well done,” Sherlock says, his voice velvety. “You captured it in a very… evocative way.”

John holds his gaze, gravitating to the shift in Sherlock’s attitude, his courage bolstered. “Smell, sight, sound,” his eyes drop to Sherlock’s mouth, “touch, taste…” He flicks his eyes back to Sherlock’s with a counter challenge. “We’re meant to be sensuous creatures, if you allow it.”

Sherlock’s eyes darken almost imperceptibly, a faint color shading his cheeks. They stand facing each other, cold air swirling off their coats, on the edge of something happening.

The door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat flies open, letting in a burst of light and Christmas music. “I thought I heard voices! Come in and warm yourselves up. I’ve just made gingerbread, and I’ll put the kettle on.”

They exchange one more lingering glance before letting Mrs. Hudson bustle them into her kitchen, their intriguing conversation unfinished.


	4. Frost

Sherlock exhales, watching his breath turn crystalline in the frigid night air. He sinks further into the fur collar of his coat and taps his fingers on the steering wheel of the hired car, wondering if he should run the heater a few minutes to warm up.

He’s loitering outside a posh hotel in Stockholm, waiting for a suspect to leave so he can follow him. He’s resigned to a long wait, given the man’s reputation for lavish drinking and dining.

Sherlock gives in and starts the engine, turning the heater on high. Cold air rushes from the vents, making his sinuses ache. The small space gradually warms, condensation forming on the side window nearest him.

He wishes John was here. He’d left that morning before John was even awake, taking the case on short notice. He’d scribbled a note and left it on the kitchen table, then rushed to the airport.

He tries to picture what John is doing right now. Maybe heating up some beans and toast, maybe watching telly with his feet propped up on the coffee table, maybe washing a few dishes before heading upstairs for the night.

He’s grown to know John’s routines, the little domestic habits that mark the passing of each day. He can barely remember living in the flat without John, his belongings now intertwined with his own — his razor and soap, his coffee mug, his brown shoes, his laptop.

He misses him.

The driver’s side window is almost frosted over. Sherlock peels off his glove and presses a warm fingertip into the thin layer of ice, melting an oval shape into the glass, a small porthole to the outside world.

He scratches a word into the frost with his fingernail, tiny crystals sparkling as they fall. Sherlock gazes at his message, homesick.

_John_

After a long pause, he scrubs the letters away, cleaning the window. He has a job to do. He needs to see the world clearly.


	5. A Beautiful Sight

It’s nearly 11 at night when Sherlock arrives home from the airport. He hooks his bag over his shoulder and trudges up the stairs, exhausted and bleary-eyed. The case in Sweden had been far more complicated and time-consuming than he’d expected.

He reaches the landing and pushes open the door, surprised to find it dark. John must be at work, or out. Maybe with a woman.

Pushing down his disappointment, Sherlock drops his bag onto the floor and switches on a lamp. He hangs up his coat then stretches out on the sofa with a deep sigh, his back aching from being cramped in the airplane. He closes his eyes, resettling his neck against the pillow.

 _I’ll rest here for awhile,_ he thinks, _then I’ll go to bed._

Within minutes, he’s asleep.

*****

John sees the soft glow of the lamplight as soon he enters the front door. His pulse jumps, knowing that Sherlock is finally back home. He was gone only a week but it seemed much longer, the flat too quiet, too lonely without him.

He works off his gloves as he climbs the steps, the scent of antiseptic soap from the surgery still clinging to his hands. He enters the sitting room, his eyes adjusting to the low light.

He soon locates Sherlock lying on the sofa, his shoes still on and his travel bag slumped on the floor. John smiles as he takes off his own shoes, then pads closer, cautiously hoping Sherlock might be a tiny bit awake.

No such luck. John can see that he’s deep asleep, his breath slow and even. He steals a private moment to gaze at Sherlock. Even with his tousled hair, unshaven face, and wrinkled suit, he’s a beautiful sight. In sleep, his face is unguarded, his perfect cupid bow’s lending him a sweet, almost boyish appearance.

John wants to touch his curls, smooth them back from his forehead. He allows himself to imagine what it would be like to wake up next to Sherlock, to press a sleepy kiss on his shoulder, to turn and gather him in his arms, pulling him against his chest.

Fantasy. Pure fantasy. John turns away, the image causing him pain. Best to go to bed, hide in the void of sleep.

He starts toward his room, then hesitates. He lifts the plaid wool blanket from the back of his chair and returns to the sofa. He unfolds the blanket with a soft rustle, then drapes it gently over Sherlock. He gazes at him a moment more, then climbs the stairs to his own solitary bed.


	6. Toy Soldier

Oh, God,” John groans, “I can’t believe it.”

Sherlock lifts his eyes from the microscope and shoots a glance at John. He’s sitting in his chair with his laptop open, apparently talking to himself. John lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head.

Intrigued, Sherlock leaves his work and glides up behind John, peering over his shoulder. Displayed on the screen is a photo -- a group of men, all shirtless and tanned, their legs covered in army fatigues and heavy boots. His eyes widen as he recognizes a younger John, his hair sun-bleached and cropped short, his arms looped behind the necks of fellow soldiers on either side of him.

Sherlock lets out a small involuntary sound and John glances up at him, his face flushing.

“An old army mate sent me this,” John explains, embarrassed. “It’s from our first post in Afghanistan. Seems like a million years ago…”

Sherlock can’t tear his eyes from the image, the dogtags dangling over John’s golden skin, his left shoulder unscarred. His smile is confident but not brash, his posture at ease, his body fit. He exudes an easy and commanding masculinity that pierces Sherlock’s defenses, penetrating into his deepest desires.

Sherlock realizes he should say something.

“Fascinating.” It comes out dry, dismissive, but his lower belly is warm, his cock stirring. The thin cotton fabric of his pajama bottoms begins to tent. “Excuse me.”

He retreats hastily to his room, flustered. He’s always had a weakness for military men — the uniform, the discipline, the authoritative air. He locks the door and paces, trying to erase the photo from his mind’s eye. He visualizes a map of London instead, reciting the street names of case locations until his system calms.

He waits until he fully regains his composure, then returns to the kitchen to continue his work at the microscope. He shifts in his chair, refusing to look at John, his eyes trained on the specimen slide. A temporary glitch, that’s all it was, a surprise seeing John bare-chested in his kit like that. It’s under control now. It won’t happen again.

*****

_The tent is hot, sunlight filtering through the canvas roof and walls. He’s lying on a thin mattress, perspiring, naked. John is standing over him, barefoot and stripped from the waist up, a knowing smile on his face._

_“You like soldiers, yeah?” John growls._

_Sherlock nods wordlessly, his body electric with anticipation._

_John slowly unbuckles his belt, his eyes locked with Sherlock’s. He drops his trousers — no boxers or briefs, just cock and bollocks hanging heavy, swinging as free as his metal dog tags as he steps out of his desert fatigues._

_John is naked now, his chest glistening in the heat. He lowers himself onto the mattress and smooths a possessive hand up Sherlock’s leg, marking a scalding trail from to his ankle to his hip bone. “Do you want me?” he murmurs._

_Sherlock nods again, his blood pooling low and hot. “Yes.”_

_John’s face instantly darkens. “Yes what?”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_The stern line of John’s mouth softens. “That’s better.” He circles his fingertips over the taut skin of Sherlock’s belly, skimming his nails through the top of his pubic hair._

_Sherlock’s cock twitches and hardens. He can smell the faint odor of their sweat, can see the tan lines on John’s hips, his pale buttocks muscular, the hair on his thighs dark. Saliva pools in Sherlock’s mouth, imagining the salty tang of John’s skin._

_John curls his hand around Sherlock’s shaft, stroking him a few times. “What should I do with you?” he muses seductively._

_Sherlock meets his eyes. “Everything.”_

Sherlock wakes with start. He’s sweating under the bed covers and he kicks them off, disoriented, incredibly aroused and in need of release. He shoves down the waistband of his pajamas and gathers his achingly stiff cock, fragments of the dream swirling around him. He fiercely works his fist, extending the scenario.

_John naked… skin slick… cock hard… pushing into him… so big… hips pumping… tags jingling… so good… so good…_

He comes, white hot, pulsing, streaking his stomach and fingers. He lies there panting, floating in his fantasy.

He finally cools, cleans himself up, and rolls back into his pillow, half asleep. Tomorrow he’ll borrow John’s laptop, copy that photo, search the files for any other material of interest. John can’t know about this, his military fetish. It’s far too intimate.

In his mind palace he’ll build a special room — a desert tent — where he can visit his captain, his toy soldier, his rough golden lover.


	7. Star

The glow of the colored fairy lights strung around the kitchen window cast a rainbow of mottled light on Sherlock’s bare back, almost as if he’s underwater. John notices this strange effect as he carefully wipes the blood from Sherlock’s shoulder blade with a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic.

Sherlock is straddling a wooden chair, his forearms folded on the seat back, his shirt off so John can tend to his injury. It’ll take four or five stitches to close the gash, the cause of which Sherlock was vague about. 

John has given up prying for details whenever Sherlock limps home with a wound, instead ensuring that he has a well-stocked first-aid kit on hand.

John applies a local anesthetic to Sherlock’s skin and threads up a suturing needle. He pulls on a fresh pair of gloves before starting. Experience has taught him that chatting helps relax patients, so he tries to think of an innocuous topic. His eyes land on Sherlock’s lower back and a sprinkling of moles dotting his fair skin. 

“Did you know you have a pattern of Orion on your back?” John asks casually.

“What are you nattering on about?” Sherlock snaps.

“Orion, the constellation.” John slips the needle in. “You know, stars. The sky. Space.”

“I don’t know anything about that. Useless.” After a moment, curiosity gets the better of him. “Who’s Orion?”

“From Greek mythology. He was a great hunter.” John’s fingers are steady as he works. “He was the son of Poseidon, the god of the sea, so he could walk on water.”

“Impressive.”

John smiles. “One day Orion went hunting with the goddess Artemis, a great huntress, and he boasted that he’d kill all the animals in the world. That made the earth goddess very angry.” John pauses, concentrating on a stitch.

“What happened?”

“Gaea, the earth goddess, sent a giant scorpion to kill him.”

“And?”

“It stung him to death.” 

“Hm.”

John is nearly finished. “So there’s a constellation of Orion, pretty easy to find, bright stars outlining his shoulders, belt, and shield.” He snips the tread. “There. All done.” 

Sherlock ruminates, not moving. “What’s it look like?”

“Well,” John is flummoxed for a moment as he peels off his gloves. He looks at Sherlock‘s back, wondering how to describe the constellation. There’s a map right in front of him. 

Without thinking, John places a fingertip on Sherlock’s skin. “His left shoulder is here.” John stops, realizing what he’s done. 

Sherlock tenses slightly but doesn’t pull away. 

John takes a breath. “And this is his right shoulder.” His finger covers the next mole. He waits, expecting Sherlock to protest or stand up, but he doesn’t move. John takes another chance. He’s not a doctor at this moment; this touch is not professional. “His right knee... is here. And his left… here.”

The air is heavy, the room warm. John’s hand lingers near the dip in Sherlock’s back, not far from his waistband.

“And the belt?” Sherlock’s voice is pitched low.

John slowly traces a diagonal line of three freckles. “Here.” He swallows. “His shield… there.” He draws a long curve between two moles, a motion that feels like a caress.

John sees Sherlock’s quick inhale, his ribs and muscles visible. Several beats go by, quivering with tension, uncertainty, a mixed desire for something more.

He gazes at the curve of Sherlock’s back, the signals between them unclear, as unfocused as the lights dappling Sherlock’s skin. John lifts his fingers away.

He takes a step back, trying to shift back to being a doctor. “You’ll feel that for a few days.” He means the fresh stitches, but his fingertips burn with the memory of warm skin.

Sherlock remains motionless, his shoulders lifting slightly with his shallow breath. “I’m sure I will,” he says softly.


	8. Silent Night

The fire is dancing in the grate, the fresh garland scents the room with pine, the glass of red wine has a satisfying finish, and he has the whole evening to himself. John relaxes in his chair, stretches out his legs, and sighs.

It’s Christmas Eve and he’s glad for the quiet. No family arguments, no raucous parties, no unwanted visitors or social obligations. Just him. Mrs. Hudson is away visiting an old friend for a few days and Sherlock is… wherever he is. Probably the lab at St. Bart’s. John checks his watch, wondering if he might be back soon. Not that it matters.

John picks up his book and reads a few pages, then places it face down in his lap. He takes a sip a wine. It’s silent. Too silent.

He used to dream about evenings like this, wishing himself away from crowded barracks and desert heat and sweaty bodies, fantasizing about a cozy room and a good book, snow falling outside, ensconced in blissful solitude.

Tonight, surprisingly, he feels a twinge of loneliness. His thoughts drift back to Sherlock, wishing he was here to share a glass of wine, maybe play one of those ridiculous board games, maybe watch _It’s a Wonderful Life,_ if he’d ever agree to it.

John stands up and paces to the window, lifting back the curtain to gaze down at the street. Quiet. Peaceful. Dull.

He misses Sherlock, his visceral energy, sharp observations, biting retorts. Even when he’s lying languid and listless on the sofa, he hums with a low intensity, an idling engine.

He turns to look at the empty room. As cozy as it is, it’s not right. It’s incomplete. He craves Sherlock’s company. He can’t think of anyone else he’d rather be with.

In a heartbeat, he decides. John switches off the fire and grabs his coat and scarf, shoving his feet into his shoes. He’s going to find Sherlock at the lab, and they’re going to spend Christmas Eve together.

 


	9. Home

Sherlock rubs his neck, aching from leaning over the microscope for hours. The lab is dim and cool and quiet -- quieter than usual, he notices, the number of squeaking shoes and rumbling carts in the hallway significantly reduced from a typical Monday night.

It’s Christmas Eve, he remembers, skeleton staff. People at home with their families eating traditional dinners, opening presents, arguing bitterly and storming off to their rooms -- or maybe that was just his family.

He rubs his face, thankful to avoid the Holmes Christmas this year. His parents are on a cruise, a gift from Mycroft. Sherlock smiles wryly, knowing Mycroft deliberately scheduled the trip to fall during the holidays. His big brother occasionally has moments of genius.

He stands up, flexes his back, and starts to clean up. It would be nice, he thinks, to go back to the flat and have a bath, stretch out on the sofa, maybe watch some telly. John will have that old movie on, the black and white one, and will have opened that bottle of wine by now.

He’s surprised to find himself looking forward to it, a calm Christmas Eve at home. It’s not normally something he would enjoy, but John will be there.

It’s John who makes it a home, John who brings takeaway and milk and tidies up, who listens to his theories and challenges his assumptions, who watches over him like the guardian angel in that old film.

Sherlock suddenly can’t wait to get home. He rushes to put everything away and lifts his coat from the hook, slipping his arms into the sleeves, the tails swirling as he sweeps out the door.

Five minutes later, John eagerly pushes open the same door, his spirits high. The silence and scent of disinfectant hit him in the face like a dash of cold water. He gazes around the empty lab, his plans disintegrating, his heart sinking. He shouldn’t have hoped so hard.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done -- and there will be a happy ending. : )


	10. Hopes and Fears

John wanders the streets, oblivious to the Christmas lights and feathery flakes of snow falling. He considers stopping at a pub to get blind drunk, but he doesn’t feel like being near people. He’s not even sure he has enough money to get drunk.

He walks on, hunkered in his coat, feeling empty. He finally winds his way back to Baker Street, his face and ears stinging from the cold. He lets himself in and climbs the stairs, lost in his moody thoughts, too preoccupied to even switch on the lights.

He unzips his coat and is slipping off his shoes when the flicker of the fire catches his eye. He squints at it, sure that he hadn’t left it going when he rushed out earlier. He glances at the back of the door and is surprised to see Sherlock’s long coat hanging on its hook.

He reaches out to touch it, his fingers running down the dark wool. It’s dry. He’s been back for awhile, before the snow started.

John slowly takes off his jacket and hangs it next to Sherlock’s. He hesitates, not sure what his emotions are. He crosses the room to the fire and holds out his hands to the heat, letting it radiate through his stiff fingers.

He gazes at the flames, his eyes traveling past the kitchen to the bathroom when he hears the creak of door hinges. Sherlock steps into the hallway, a towel slung low around his hips. He rubs his wet hair with another towel and shuffles into the kitchen to rummage in the cupboards.

John watches him from the shadows, taking in his trim waist, sinewy limbs, long fingers and toes. His body is lovely, a Greek god chiseled from marble, one stretching an arm to the highest shelf to satisfy his weakness for sweets. John smiles as Sherlock rips open a packet of ginger biscuits and dumps several onto a plate. At this moment, Sherlock is endearingly human, and for a moment, John’s fears melt away.

He steps forward into the light. “I tried to hide those from you.”

Sherlock’s eyes fly up, on guard. He relaxes when he recognizes John. “It wasn’t a very clever hiding spot.”

“No, I suppose not.” John curls his fingers over the top of a chair. They’re both standing by the table, John close enough to see droplets of water on Sherlock’s skin. “I went to the lab to look for you tonight.”

Sherlock’s guard goes back up. “Why?”

“I was hoping… ” John pauses again. “I dunno, it’s Christmas Eve, and I was hoping we might do something.”

Sherlock sets the plate on the table. “I was just at the lab. I came back early. I thought you’d be here.”

They look at each other. _Always a few beats out of sync,_ John thinks, _never quite aligned._ “We must have just missed each other.”

“Why didn’t you text me? I would have waited.”

Embarrassment streaks through John. “I just… It didn’t seem important enough. I didn’t want to bother you.”

Sherlock glances away, looking down at the biscuits. “It wouldn’t have bothered me.”

There’s a rough sort of confession in Sherlock’s voice that heightens John’s senses and draws him closer. Sherlock is nearly naked in front of him, the long curve of his neck pronounced as he averts his gaze. John can smell the sharp, clean scent of soap on Sherlock’s skin, the slight almond sweetness of his shampoo. His chest is pale, his nipples beaded, his belly flat, a thin trail of dark hair leading to his groin.

John swallows, his tongue feeling thick. He forces himself to speak. “Your shoulder… how is it healing?” He’d removed the stitches a few days ago, a quick job done with little conversation, Sherlock in one of his silent moods.

Sherlock keeps his eyes trained on the biscuits, then turns wordlessly, presenting his back to John. He slides away the towel draped around his neck, fully exposing his shoulder blades.

His skin is damp, the fine hair below his nape gleaming in the light. John reaches out and touches the pink raised line. It will leave a small scar, nothing remarkable, only he and Sherlock will know its story. John reluctantly lifts his finger away.

They don’t move, the seconds ticking by, the silence eventually broken by Sherlock’s low voice.

“Show me where Orion is again.”

John holds his breath, places his index finger on Sherlock’s lower back, silently tracing the pattern of the constellation. His finger stops just above the towel wrapped around Sherlock’s waist. With one firm tug, he could make the flimsy cotton drop away. He could place his hands on Sherlock’s hips, slide them down to cup the globes of his buttocks, press his pelvis into the cleft to let him feel his desire, the hard line of his cock, the hot press of his mouth on his vertebrae.

John raises his eyes to the damp tendrils of Sherlock’s hair. He’s never wanted anyone so much in his life, every fiber of his being aching to twine and meld with Sherlock’s.

Sherlock shivers, gooseflesh prickling his arms.

“You’re shaking,” John whispers, unsure if it’s the cold or his touch that’s causing Sherlock to tremble. His own hand is unsteady, every hope and fear wound into these few strands of time. He’s forgotten how to breathe.

It’s not a conscious decision when John gently slides his hands around Sherlock’s waist and tips forward, covering the fresh scar with his lips. It’s an instinct, a deep need to warm and protect the beautiful, brilliant conundrum of a man he’s fallen in love with.

Sherlock’s muscle tense at the kiss, an initial alarm that gives way to a shaky exhalation, a gradual melting into John’s chest, a word of gratitude slipping from his lips. “John…”

The moment is crystalline, a delicate filament strung between them, one that John doesn’t want to break. He moves his mouth to Sherlock’s other shoulder, leaving a tender caress before taking a small step back, sliding his hands away.

 _Slowly, slowly,_ John thinks, _this is too precious, too new to rush._

They still have not looked each other in the eye. John walks the few steps to the bathroom and fetches Sherlock’s dressing gown. He returns, draping it around Sherlock’s shoulders, his hands lingering on the lapels. Their gazes finally meet.

John tries to convey everything through his eyes — so much that he can’t say yet, all that he wants and hopes for — choosing the simplest question. “Will you watch a movie with me?”

Sherlock’s eyes are dark, clearing with his simple answer. “Yes.”

Ten minutes later they’re changed into soft pajamas, sitting on the sofa, so close their legs almost touch. On the screen, snow falls on a small town, the details of the story lost as their hips nudge together, their thighs sinking into the same seam between the sofa cushions.

Sherlock rests his head on the back of the couch, his hands loose in his lap. John’s hand drifts closer, his pinky brushing against Sherlock’s, venturing into a few gentle strokes.

John turns his head slightly, just as Sherlock turns his. Their eyes meet, and John’s gaze falls to Sherlock’s mouth. He lowers his lashes and slowly leans down, their lips nearly touching. John hesitates, a wisp of uncertainty holding him back, until he feels fingertips sliding into his hair behind his ear, pulling him down into a tentative kiss.

John closes his eyes, his hand rising, sliding under Sherlock’s jaw, angling his head to deepen the kiss. Sherlock responds like a flower blooming in the sun, his mouth warm, one hand twining into John’s hair, the other into the fabric of his T-shirt.

The movie is forgotten, the world narrowed to eager lips and hot breath and sensitive skin, the leather upholstery groaning as they shift, snogging heavily, a tangle of limbs pressed into the corner of the sofa.

Outside, the snow sifts down, blanketing the streets and houses, a soft glow emanating from behind the closed curtains of Baker Street.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I promised a happy ending! This *may* be the last chapter, but the next prompt is very tempting: Feast. My mind just goes places with that...
> 
> We’ll see how much time I have! Happy holidays to you!
> 
> Edited to add: I had time to write. Onward to the feast! >>


	11. Feast

 

John is sprawled on the bed, his eyes sultry in the low light, his skin glowing, his naked body pinned beneath the straddling grip of Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock gazes down at him, his fingers trailing over John’s chest, teasing, toying, drawing out the anticipation, determined to savor every drop of their encounter.

John’s rib cage rises and falls with his shallow breath, his balls pressing against Sherlock’s, their cocks hard, nearly touching. He lets out a hissing groan when Sherlock brushes his fingertips over his erect nipples, round and bright as berries.

John curves his hands around Sherlock’s plush arse, smooth and downy like a ripe peach. He sinks his fingers into the flesh of his buttocks, enjoying the act of possession while simultaneously giving himself over to Sherlock’s dominating position.

Sherlock lazily maps John’s torso, dipping a finger into the hollow of his throat, skimming down the hard plane of his sternum, curving around the ridge of a rib. His hand ventures lower, over the soft valley of John’s belly, his fingers making small circles on the skin of his stomach just under his jutting cock.

Sherlock’s knuckles brush the underside of John’s shaft, causing his cock to bob up in response. John groans, a needy growl from deep in his throat.

It's intoxicating, touching each other like this, drinking in small details — the flush of color on John’s cheeks; the almond shape of Sherlock’s eyes, his pupils dark; thatches of hair under arms, musky and warm; knobs of spine and sharp elbows, delicate ankle bones and tender inner thighs.

Sherlock continues to lock eyes with John. He wants to consume him, wants to absorb every cell into his own body, merge with him completely.

He reaches out, finds the bottle of lube in the bedside table drawer. He holds it, warming it in his hand. He lifts an eyebrow, his voice a velvety ribbon. “Shall I fuck you… or you fuck me?”

John thrills at the mere suggestion, wanting somehow to do both. But he has to choose. “I want to fuck you,” he manages to pant, “like that, with you on top.”

Sherlock smiles, then flips open the cap, squeezing a generous amount of lube into his hand. He circles John’s cock, coating his shaft until it glistens. He adds another squeeze of lubricant to his fingers, then reaches behind him, his face settling into concentration.

John pictures it, Sherlock’s long fingers gently teasing the dusky pink hole, relaxing the ring of muscle, slipping inside. John places his hands on Sherlock’s hips, his thumbs caressing the taut skin stretched over his hip bones.

He’s beautiful like this, creamy skin, long lashes casting shadows across his angular face, his lips slightly parted. Sherlock raises himself on his knees and grasps John’s cock, guiding it to his entrance. John holds his breath, still amazed at how it feels, slowly pressing into Sherlock’s body, sliding in.

Sherlock lowers himself, eyes closed, taking in John’s girth bit by bit, pulling up slightly, then settling back again, surrounding his cock. John keeps his hands on Sherlock’s hips, following his lead, spellbound, moving in response to Sherlock’s increasing motions. They watch each other hungrily, creating a rhythm, a sheen of sweat gleaming on their skin as they plunge and thrust.

John senses when Sherlock’s legs begin to tire. He moves his hands higher to Sherlock’s back, bends upward, and flips Sherlock over in one swift move. John gathers him in his arms, finds his mouth, lavishing him with passionate kisses. He slips his cock back into the hot sheath of Sherlock’s body, Sherlock’s legs wrapping around his back.

They fuck, hands and mouths clinging and roaming and demanding, feeding off each other’s desire. For too long they were starving men, hungry and aching for touch. Now they are kings rich with intimacy, indulging in a succulent feast of flesh and pleasure.

John buries his face in Sherlock’s shoulder, rutting, grunting, gasping as his orgasm ripples through him, white hot, shuddering. He collapses, breathing heavily, barely aware of Sherlock’s hands running up and down his back, easing him back to earth.

John rolls off, keeping a leg half hooked over Sherlock’s, nibbling his ear as Sherlock finishes himself off with a few hard strokes. Sherlock sighs deeply, a rumble that John can feel in his bones.

They lie in a tangle of sheets and limbs, the room scented with sex, their hearts beating rapidly. When they finally cool, John pulls a wrinkled sheet up to their shoulders. They turn to face each other, slotting their bodies together, hands drifting over arms and hips.

“That’s was delicious,” John murmurs, his lips on Sherlock’s forehead.

“Mmm,” Sherlock agrees sleepily. “But I might want more later.”

“Oh?” John pulls back with a low laugh. “You’re insatiable.”

“You’re more than capable.” Sherlock assures him, his fingers grazing over John’s flaccid cock.

John grins, leaning down to kiss Sherlock again, tugging suggestively on his bottom lip. “I promise to feed you up,” he whispers, “with whatever you want.”

Sherlock’s mouth crooks, his hand curling against John’s chest as he settles into sleep. They doze, warm, sated for the moment, basking in their abundance.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that bit of hot and sweet fluff, I’ll call this The End. 
> 
> Happy New Year to you! Here’s to a better, kinder year filled with Good Things.


End file.
